


Serre Moi

by kingofokay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Photoverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 02:18:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingofokay/pseuds/kingofokay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the <a href="http://castielsphotos.tumblr.com/">photoverse</a></p><p>Lyrics from Serre Moi, by Tryo</p><p>French is really sexy</p>
            </blockquote>





	Serre Moi

Theoretically, it’s a good afternoon for studying. Jess and Sam are in class all afternoon, though Castiel gets a free half day on Thursdays. Dean’s supposed to be in History of English Literature, but to his complete and utter joy, the professor cancelled today’s class due to being sick. And so they find themselves spread across the living room floor, Dean laying sprawled stomach-down on the center of the rug with a couch cushion beneath his chest. There’s a textbook open in front of him which he idly flips the page of every now and again, taking a few notes on the notebook spread on the floor. Cas is laying perpendicular, head resting against Dean’s side, feet propped up on the edge of the sofa. He’s deeply engrossed in some Faulkner, though his attention is waning.

Cas sighs, putting the book down on his chest and staring up at the ceiling. He tilts his head so his ear is pressed against Dean’s back, listening to the sound of air pulling through his lungs, the low and steady thrum of his heartbeat. Rolling over onto his side, the book slips off his chest to the floor as he reaches up to trace idle patterns on Dean’s back, fingertips catching on the fabric of Dean’s shirt.

“ _Pourrais-je dépunaiser tes ailes_?” Cas says quietly, tone low and mouth half-pressed against Dean’s back.

“Huh?” Dean says, distracted. He tilts his head vaguely in Cas’ direction, but his eyes are fixed on the note he’s jotting in his notebook. French is not uncommon to hear in this house, as Cas is fluent and occasionally speaks it with his brothers, though he speaks it to Dean often enough as well. Dean always gets the vague sensation that Cas is taking advantage of the language barrier to tease him. This is probably because that is a correct assumption at least half the time.

Cas pulls himself up slightly, leaning in to press a kiss against the fabric of Dean’s shirt, into the dip of his spine between his shoulder blades. “ _Embrasser_ ,” he says, word rolling off his tongue like silk, and then he nips lightly at the muscle of his shoulder, “T _e mordre en même temps_.”

Dean is definitely not paying attention to the textbook anymore.

“Shit,” he breathes out softly, glancing back over his shoulder. Cas looks mischievous - not uncommon, either - open mouth pressed against Dean’s shoulder blade curved with a very subtle grin. And there’s a glint to his eyes as Dean’s breath catches when Cas rakes his fingernails down the curve of Dean’s side.

He pauses his hand just above Dean’s hip, taking hold and letting his blunt nails bite through the cotton t-shirt. “ _Enfoncer mes ongles dans ton dos brulant_ ,” Cas rolls smoothly, and it’s difficult to categorize if it was more of a purr or a growl. Dean grunts, shoulders shifting slightly as he cranes farther. But Castiel is already coming back, dropping feather-light kisses in a row up Dean’s spine before nuzzling in at the back of his neck. “ _Te supplier de me revenir_.”

Dean groans, but it’s a comfortable and drawn-out kind of a sound, letting himself collapse back down onto his cushion. “That’s so fuckin’ hot. You talkin’ dirty to me, Cas?”

Castiel smiles, subtle and bright, once again brushing fingertips in aimless lines across the expanse of Dean’s back. “It’s from a song.” He doesn’t wait for Dean to request the translation, reciting in a slow-rolling smooth tone like poetry. “Could I unbind your wings? Kissing… biting you, at the same time.” He flexes his fingers so nails scrape down the dip of Dean’s spine as his voice rumbles lower and softer. “Dig my nails in your burning back, beg you to come back.”

Dean’s brows are raised, and a flush has spread over the back of his neck. He watches Cas out of the corner of his eye. “…Sounds like a damn good song,” he says, though his voice has gone rough around the edges.

A small huff of a laugh, and Cas quirks a teasing half-grin. “ _Mille fois entrelaçons nous_ ,” and now Cas’ tone is a bit rough as well, sandpaper to a voice already like gravel, hand meandering further down Dean’s back, brushing at his hips. “ _Et lassons nous, même… en dessous_ ,” which is accompanied by Cas slipping his hand into the back pocket of Dean’s jeans and giving a very solid squeeze, catching Dean off guard if the strangled sound he made was any indication.

“ _Serre moi encore_ ,” softer now, delicate, as Castiel curls in to rest his cheek against Dean’s back. “ _Serre moi_ ,” lips again find themselves against Dean’s shoulder, feeling the warmth of skin beneath through fabric, “ _Jusqu´à étouffer de toi_.”

The light flush has spread up to tint Dean’s cheeks, making a pretty contrast to the smattering of freckles across his cheekbone. “Yeah?” he exhales, green eyes dark with wide pupils, brows raised as he awaits translation.

“A thousand times intertwining ourselves,” Castiel says, smooth and dark, “Enlaced even, uh…” He considers his translation for a moment, “ _Below_ ,” and as if the meaning weren’t clear enough already, Cas gives a pinch to Dean’s ass with a little smirk. “Hold me again, hold me… until I’m smothered by you.”

Silence settles into the room as Dean considers this. “Yeah, oooh-kay,” he says, drawing the word out with a grunt as he rolls over and sits up. “So.. how d’you say ‘Get your ass to the bedroom, right fuckin’ now.’”

“ _Tu aurais interêt à emmèner tes fesses au lit le plus vite possible_ ,” Castiel replies, expression nonchalant, though he spoils the effect by the glint in his eyes.

Dean nods, shoving at Cas with a wide-spread grin. “Yeah. That.  _Prontissimo_.”

A minute later and halfway up the stairs Cas corrects primly, “…That was Italian,” and he’s fully deserving of the sharp smack on the ass he receives in response.


End file.
